


Voices

by OnyxSardonyx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSardonyx/pseuds/OnyxSardonyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are tethered to each other just by their voices. In a way, they are still at each other's sides. Best friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

Every day, he would pick up the phone. Right after breakfast. It was just lying there, on the table, always on the same spot, and he never looked at it except for that one time, each day, when he picked it up and scrolled through the contacts.

Scrolling past _Greg Lestrade_ and _Harry_ and _Molly_ and _Mycroft_ , sitting between names of people he barely knew and Taxi services and Domino's Pizza and nothing that really mattered, scrolling more slowly as he got further along the alphabet, barely reaching the letter S.

And there his name stood, as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock.

Every day, his thumb would linger over the _call_ button for a while.

Every day, he would _not_ press the button. He would sigh, lock his phone, put it down and go back to whatever he was doing.

 

After the funeral, he moved out of 221B Baker Street. He found a tiny, cheap flat in outer London where he lived alone, a humble life, a miserable life.

A week after the funeral, his limp returned.

He found himself unable to do anything. It got to the point where it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. He barely managed to make his therapy sessions. Not that they were any good - he just sat there while his therapist tried to get him to talk. He never said anything.

He never said anything, to anyone.

He had nightmares. The more obvious ones were Sherlock falling and falling and sometimes John was falling as well, falling and never hitting the ground before he started and woke up with Sherlock's bloodied face in his mind, his eyes staring at the sky, no life left in them, and blood, blood everywhere and the wrist underneath his fingers, the warm, familiar wrist, no life left in it, no pulse -

Sometimes he just dreamed about Sherlock's face, or dreamed about gunshots and a far-too-familiar voice yelling, “Bored!” He dreamed about the tape that contained a crime scene, any crime scene, he dreamed about weird and wonderful deductions and yellow paint and sometimes just the simple situation of getting a text, meaningless words, with the initials SH behind them.

Those dreams were those that haunted him the most, the dreams that made him want to die, the dreams that kept him in bed all day.

Those dreams were those that made him pick up his phone, scroll to _Sherlock_ and sit for more than a minute, just staring at the 'Call' button. Every morning.

After Sherlock fell, Mycroft took his phone. John didn't know what happened to it. Presumably, it was lying in a safe somewhere, to be used as evidence someday. Or maybe, maybe Mycroft gave it back to Sherlock - maybe, maybe Sherlock was alive, hiding, and Mycroft knew about it.

He didn't really allow those thoughts. But it was them, it was this tiny spark of hope that made John pay the bill for Sherlock's phone every month. It was this tiny spark of hope that, one day about a month after the funeral, made John stare at the phone and stare and stare and finally, finally press _call_.

The phone rang. And rang.

John half expected that, any time now, a familiar voice would answer. Simply saying, _John_.

He jumped about a mile out of his chair when something clicked and he heard the voice.

But it didn't say _John_.

“This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if it's something important, but don't bore me with insignificant trifles.”

There was a faint _beep_ , and John was left alone in his room, in his chair, breathing hard as if he'd just run a mile, tears stinging in his eyes.

Hearing this, hearing Sherlock's voice, the recorded message in his voicemail, brought back the sharp pain of what he'd lost. The faint _beep_ brought back the loneliness to his room, the meaninglessness of his life without Sherlock and how lost and how helpless he really was.

For about a minute, he fought his tears, fought the memories and the pain. Eventually, he breathed a single word, the first word he'd said in weeks.

“Sherlock...”

He quickly hung up, for fear that his ghosts would come back to haunt him, as they did every night.

 

This night, it was Sherlock's voice in his dreams, just his voice saying his name, John, the last word Sherlock had spoken, and he woke to find his pillow slightly damp and not quite dried tears on his face.

He picked up the phone again after breakfast. Scrolled down to Sherlock. Hesitated, then pressed _call_.

“This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if it's something important, but don't bore me with insignificant trifles.”

He could still feel the grief pressing down on him, being intensified with every word he heard Sherlock say. But this time, he didn't need quite as much time as before.

“Sherlock”, he said, his voice a little steadier this time.

“I miss you.”

He hung up again and when he called again the next morning, he had thought long about what he was going to say. It was simple, really. There was one thing he had to tell Sherlock, whether or not he was actually listening.

“I knew you, Sherlock, and you weren't a fraud. Nobody could have faked that, nobody could have staged that. I knew you, and you didn't lie to me. Even if I'm the only person in the world, Sherlock, and I still sometimes think I am, I mean, look at the newspapers - I might be the only person in the world who still believes in you. And I do, Sherlock. I still believe in you. I always have.”

Because John knew him, and Sherlock was real. He was his friend. Had been. A genius, a brilliant mind trapped inside itself, being forced to commit suicide.

“Please, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me.”

_Just one_.

“Don't be. Dead.”

_If you can hear this_.

“For me.”

 

It became a ritual. It was strangely therapeutic. He slept easier. He still saw Sherlock in his dreams and still heard his voice, but it was comforting instead of painful.

And he said everything he'd ever wanted to tell Sherlock. He whispered the words to the voicemail, he clung to the dry recorded voice of his friend, held on to the few sentences, always the same, never changing.

He imagined that somewhere, far off, Sherlock was alive, listening to what he said, and commenting.

“Sherlock, I didn't even knew I could miss someone as much as I miss you.”

“You gave my life a purpose, a meaning after the war, you were exactly what I needed and without you, I'm nothing.”

_Sentiment._

“If you can hear this, please. Please let me know, please come back.”

_Dull._

“I know it might be sentimental. I know it is. But I can't go on like this, without you.”

He started going out again. He started speaking again. He started living again, clinging only to the voice in his mobile phone, to the hope that Sherlock could hear what he had to say, to the hope that Sherlock was alive, that he would come back eventually.

He knew that is was probably pointless. He had seen the fall, he had seen the blood, he had felt for his friend's pulse, had felt no pulse, had seen the body being wheeled away. He had been at the funeral.

But he knew that if anyone could cheat death, it was Sherlock, and he knew that Sherlock was not going to let himself be beaten. Not by Moriarty, not by anyone.

So he kept calling.

He kept living, living for the hope that everything would be all right.

 

He opened a practice and found that working helped him as well. Of course, prescribing drugs for diabetes and examining sprained ankles was nothing at all like what he'd done with Sherlock, but it helped. It was something he had learned, something he had been trained to do, something that took his mind off the fact that his best friend had still not reappeared in his life.

He still kept calling, maybe not every day, but at least twice a week, he listened to Sherlock's voice and told him about his day, talked him through the things he had to do, in a way continued his blog by talking to Sherlock's voicemail.

To his patients, John always appeared to be a good, competent and caring doctor, someone who rarely smiled but always managed to make you feel better.

To his friends... John hardly had friends.

He occasionally phoned Harry and very rarely Mrs Hudson, but that was about it. He didn't date anymore and he didn't pick up any new friendships. He lived by himself, for himself and his work and his memories and he never thought it would ever change.

 

The dreams never left.

Sometimes he just dreamed he was back in Baker Street and the door opened and Sherlock Holmes walked in.

Sometimes he woke up and knew he had dreamed about Sherlock, but couldn't remember what.

Sometimes he woke up and knew he had cried in his sleep.

A year passed more quickly than he realised, and he hadn't heard any news of Sherlock. The newspapers had long moved on to other stories. The world seemed to have forgotten about Sherlock. Everyone but John.

Another year passed, and John's calls to Sherlock became less frequent. He worked more and he worked harder, forgetting seemed to get easier every day, but deep down John knew it was just an illusion. The dreams never left, they didn't get less frequent, they weren't any less painful.

And John's messages to Sherlock changed, slowly but gradually, and at first, John didn't even notice it himself.

“ _I dreamed about you again last night. It's the first time this week, but it's still the same.”_

“ _It gets harder to remember your face, Sherlock, I try all the time but the image just fades and I barely remember the colour of your eyes and the shape of your cheekbones... I'm so scared I'll forget you one day, Sherlock, I don't want to forget you...”_

Sometimes he was angry, but mostly he was just sad, maybe a little disappointed, and the more time passed, the more certain he became that Sherlock was really dead - because if he was alive, he would have found his way back to John by now, wouldn't he?

“Look, if you're alive, I don't really get what you're doing, not coming back and all - I'd really appreciate a sign, Sherlock, just a sign”, he practically yelled into his phone one afternoon after a particularly bad day at the practice. It wasn't even that something bad had happened; it had just been a day where nothing at all had happened, and John was really beginning to appreciate and understand Sherlock's occasional impulse to grab a pistol and shoot at the wall from boredom. He felt pretty close to that himself right now; he wished more than anything that Sherlock was back, that they were back on the line, solving crimes, chasing people halfway through London, in the middle of scandal and crime and death...

“I'm so sick of this ordinary life, Sherlock. It just feels so unbelievably meaningless without you.”

 

It took almost another year before he went out with someone again. To his surprise, it wasn't a woman who had caught his eye this time - it was a man, with light golden curls, an adorable laugh and a formidable education. He had lovely cheekbones as well - they reminded John a little of Sherlock, which made Tom (that was his name) even more attractive. Apart from that, he had next to nothing in common with Sherlock - he was warm, caring and mature, and John was head over heels in love with him before he even realised what was happening to him.

Tom managed to distract John very well for a while, but soon John noticed that once again, as it had always been the case with his girlfriends, Sherlock was in the way. It was his name that would pop up in a conversation, it was his face that John still saw in his dreams. It was Sherlock's lips that John imagined on his when he was kissing Tom, Sherlock's hands touching him, Sherlock's face in his dreams...

He split up with Tom soon after he realised that. He didn't date anyone else after that.

 

He began to entertain the possibility that he might actually be in love with Sherlock Holmes. He tried to look at it logically, as Sherlock would have done. It was probably the only explanation that fit all the facts.

John had never in his life been as broken as when Sherlock died.

He dreamed of him, just seeing him, just being with him, and even now, almost three years after the fall, the dreams hadn't lost any of their intensity.

He clung on to Sherlock's voice in his voicemail and phoned every week just to hear this voice.

And he imagined kissing Sherlock when he was kissing another man.

The obvious answer was yes, John was in love with Sherlock, but it was not an answer John wanted to reach. Sherlock was dead, he was quite convinced of that now, and if John continued to live his way fixated on the stupid hope that he would one day come back, it would only lead to misery.

But of course, not thinking about it didn't really help either.

 

It took a while for him to work up the courage to tell Sherlock's voicemail. In the end, he talked for almost an hour, explaining everything, telling him about Tom, about his realisation, about his love, about his stupid hope. He felt himself crying as he told Sherlock that he loved him, again and again.

“Look, Sherlock, you mean - you meant - more to me than anything or anyone. I know you probably can't even hear me, but - I can't function without you, I can't, and I'm breaking. I'm just breaking apart without you, I have those past three years, and it's getting harder, Sherlock. It's getting harder.”

He ended begging Sherlock to come back, literally begging him, just for a sign, a sign at least, anything to show him that hope wasn't lost. _Anything at all, Sherlock._

 

He didn't really expect anything big to happen. He didn't really expect anything. Sherlock was dead.

He phoned Sherlock's voicemail again, three days later, and heard the familiar voice, the familiar words... he knew the sentence so well by now, he could recognise any change to it -

“This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if it's something important, but don't bore me with insignificant trifles.”

It was the same voice, it was the same words, but it was a different recording.

The pattern of the voice had changed ever so slightly, the way that the same thing can never be said exactly the same way twice, and John would never have noticed the difference two years ago, he wouldn't have noticed it at all, but things being as they were, he did notice it.

For a second or two, he sat in silence, absorbing the fact that Sherlock had just given him a sign - he refused to interpret this as anything else. Sherlock was alive, he had his phone, he was checking his messages frequently, he had heard John's rant about being in love with him, and had decided to give him a sign.

“Sherlock”, he whispered, much as he had the first time he had called him.

But he didn't disconnect at once. He hesitated for a second, then very gently said, “Come home.”


	2. Sherlock

His phone was silent. It was always silent these days, when even the occasional texts from Mycroft had ceased to come. It was like he had just vanished from the world. Like he had died.

Which was ironic, considering that there were only a handful of people who knew he was alive.

John wasn't one of them, so his phonecall was surprising. Well, not entirely surprising. Sherlock had expected it, sooner or later. John was so human. So... sentimental.

He didn't answer the phone, of course. John wasn't to know, not yet. He waited patiently until the ringing stopped. He wondered whether John would leave a message.

He did, in fact.

Sherlock could hear the stifled sobs, the suppressed tears, and then the single word, barely audible, his friend's voice, saying a single word.

_Sherlock_.

He felt a rush of - affection? Affection and, perhaps, longing. He missed his friend, the closest friend he'd ever had. And he felt anger, anger at Moriarty, not for doing this to Sherlock, but for doing this to John.

 

The phonecalls came frequently after that, every day at first, and Sherlock always took the time to listen to what John was telling him. He could hear the hope from John's voice, the hope that he was still alive and would come back one day.

Sherlock intended to come back, but it was far too soon. He knew that there were still people who needed to think he was dead, he knew that he couldn't come back to John until the last of Moriarty's faithful gunmen, snipers, colleagues were either dead themselves, or in prison, or at least in some way under control. He knew that Mycroft was doing his best. Sherlock helped as well, but stayed undercover.

He was bored most of the time. He didn't dare going out too much, or moving, or travelling. Thus, the occasional message from John was very welcome, especially as Sherlock missed his friend - it took him a while to realise that he, Sherlock Holmes, was actually capable of something so sentimental. But he was, and he found himself longing for Baker Street and John's company and solving crimes and so he held on to John's voice in the mobile phone, saying that he missed him, saying that he wanted him to come back.

John was doing worse than Sherlock had anticipated. He heard John say that he hardly got up to anything, that he didn't date, that he didn't have friends. Sherlock was very glad when John said he had opened a practice and was working again, but he also noticed that the longing in John's voice never got any less. John dreamed a lot about Sherlock, he said, and Sherlock found himself increasingly dreaming about John as well. He knew he couldn't risk exposing himself, even though the temptation to call or at least text John got worse every day; at times, it was almost as bad as withdrawal pain. But he didn't give in to it - for once in his life, Sherlock prioritised his own life, as well as John's, over the need to do what he wanted.

The time passed slowly, and even two years after he had faked his own death, Moriarty's men still hadn't all been tracked down. Two of them were still free and just as dangerous as before, and that wasn't even counting Moriarty himself - Sherlock couldn't dismiss the possibility of him being alive as well. After all, Moriarty was just as much a genius as Sherlock was, and if Sherlock was able to fake his own death, then Moriarty was probably just as good.

His inability to do something - to do anything - was more painful than anything he'd ever experienced before. He was left, in hiding, with but a handful of people who even knew of his existence. He was forced to leave his work to people he barely trusted - but then, who did he trust? Mycroft's reassurances - _We'll have them tracked down in no time, don't worry, Sherlock, we're already following a good lead_ \- didn't do anything to reassure him at all. He was restless, itching to get out, itching for the hunt, the war, the battlefields. And at the same time, he knew he had to hold back, he knew he had no choice but to trust his brother and to wait, to wait until finally, finally he could reveal himself to all the important people.

Which was mostly one person. John.

 

His restlessness increased with every passing day. At one point, drugs started to look good again. Far too good. He knew that he could get cocaine if he needed it, possibly even without Mycroft finding out, but he knew he shouldn't... the temptation grew worse every day, it was usually worst just after John had called and left his messages.

John was getting better, but only very slowly. Sherlock followed his friend's progress closely: how he worked, how he got out again, how he got frustrated and bored by his normal, unexciting life. Sherlock could really, really sympathise with John on that.

And he could tell that John was still broken, and that there was only one sure way to fix him. If Sherlock came back, John would be fixed.

Sherlock had never wanted anything more than to fix John. It was definitely more important than cocaine, it was even more important than finding Moriarty's men. But whenever he tried to convince Mycroft of that, Mycroft had his ways of ensuring that Sherlock stayed, that Sherlock didn't call or text or got any form of message to John... and Sherlock knew that if he really wanted, he could outsmart Mycroft, but he also knew that it would be bad, both for him and for John, if John knew he was alive. So he didn't.

 

And one day, about six months later, Mycroft finally - finally - brought Sherlock the news he'd been waiting for ever since he faked his fall.

“We've tracked down the last two of Moriarty's men. They put up quite a fight and one of them was killed - the other one is in a high-security prison, and he's not getting out there again.”

Sherlock could barely contain his excitement - finally, finally he could move, go out, find John, fix John... continue living the way he chose to live, with John by his side.

“Unfortunately”, Mycroft continued, and Sherlock's excitement dropped. Of course there had to be a catch.

“We don't know for sure that there aren't more of his accomplices out there. We also don't know if Moriarty is actually dead. So unless we can find out -”

“I need to get out of here”, Sherlock snapped.

“I understand that, Sherlock. But if you could at least give us another month, or two -”

“- or three or four -”

“- please, Sherlock. It's for your own safety.” And after a moment, Mycroft added, “And John's.”

Sherlock didn't answer.

 

It was worse, now that there was no real threat that kept him from revealing himself. But Mycroft insisted, bringing up John's safety if Sherlock looked as if he might actually go insane and break out and go back to his life. It was very effective; the very thought of John's life being in danger kept Sherlock in place, even though he could tell that Mycroft was wondering how much longer it would stay that way.

He managed to stay put for another two months, listening to John's voice in his phone, clinging on to him and the hope that he would see is friend again soon. But John was falling apart, he was falling apart too badly for Sherlock to ignore... and when he heard John's long voicemail about him dating a man and coming to terms with the fact that he, John, was actually in love with Sherlock - well, it was over. Sherlock then knew full well that John wouldn't last another month without him. He didn't even want to consider the possibilities; self-harm, doing far too dangerous things on purpose, getting hurt or even killed - none of that was something Sherlock was willing to risk.

John had asked him for a sign, and a sign was what he was going to get.

“Fuck off, Mycroft”, he muttered and then recorded the new message. The message for John: _I'm alive, don't give up._ Carefully disguised in meaningless words, the same words that John had heard for three years. But Sherlock was certain that John would understand.

He prepared everything. He just told Mycroft that John's sanity was more important now than his safety, and anyway, they'd been in tight spots before and he was sure they could handle it.

He wondered how their relationship would change. Of course, with John's confession, it would not be the same; but all available data led Sherlock to believe that they would be more than just flatmates or friends. The prospect was not unwelcome.

There was only one more phonecall from John. Presumably, he heard the message and got the message.

He said three simple words.

_Sherlock. Come home._

And Sherlock did.

 


	3. Epilogue

 His phone buzzed.

_Come to 221b Baker Street. MH_

John didn't even think about it for a second. He got out of his flat, got a cab and entered the flat as soon as he got there.

Mrs Hudson was there and greeted him with a warm smile. “John! I didn't expect you. Is something going on, or are you just visiting?”

He was pleased to see her, even though she wasn't the person he wanted to see most. “Just... visiting, I think”, he said. To be honest, he didn't really know. He was here because Mycroft had told him so and because his hope and wish to see Sherlock Holmes alive had been stronger than anything else...

“Is anyone living in our flat?”, he asked Mrs Hudson. _When Sherlock comes back, he won't want to live anywhere but here..._ “No”, she answered. “I never rented it out - I don't think anyone's been in there since you moved out.”

John told her that he wanted to see the flat.

Barely anything had changed. When he moved out, John hadn't had the nerve to go through Sherlock's stuff, so most of it remained untouched, albeit covered with a thick layer of three years' worth of dust. He realised with a pang that he, too, couldn't bear to live anywhere else. Now that Sherlock was coming back... if he was really coming back.

“I think I might want to move back in”, he told Mrs Hudson.

 

Sherlock's violin wasn't there, which struck John as a little bit odd. He had left it here, and as far as he knew nobody had been in here since.

Except that somebody must have been.

 

It didn't take long. He had tea with Mrs Hudson and then sat in the abandoned flat, wondering how much fuss it would be to move all his stuff back to Baker Street. He heard the door open and the footsteps on the stairs. He tried not to get too excited and failed. He got out of his seat without even noticing.

And then the door opened and there he was.

Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate, his best friend and the love of his life.

“You took your time”, John said with an effort. His voice was shaking.

He didn't quite know what he wanted to do more: punch Sherlock in the face or kiss him. They just looked at each other for a while, and then settled for an awkward hug.

But after that, John did punch Sherlock in the face.

 

“Three years.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Three bloody years, Sherlock!”

“Do you want me to keep apologising?”

“Hell, yes. Three years. You have no idea what I went through.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then, “I do. Your phonecalls, remember?”

Now it was John's turn to be silent.

He remembered his last phonecall and the one before that. He had told Sherlock to come home... and he had told Sherlock he loved him.

Which was still true, undoubtedly so. He wanted to ask Sherlock about it, but found himself too scared to speak.

“Quite touching”, Sherlock said. John felt the pain taking over. _Touching_ , that was all Sherlock had to say about that?

“That you thought to phone at all. It was very nice, hearing from you.”

“Well, yeah”, said John before he could stop himself, “it would have been really nice hearing from you as well.”  
“I'm sorry, John”, Sherlock muttered. John thought that this was probably the third time Sherlock apologised, which was enormous coming from the man who never apologised. But it was still not enough. Or maybe it was, if you added it to the fact that Sherlock's nose was still bleeding. John was quite sorry for that, he had never wanted to actually hurt Sherlock. Except he had. _Oh, this is so fucked up._

“What you said...”

John looked up. Sherlock was obviously struggling to find words, which was something that John had never experienced. At the same time, Sherlock looked... emotional, far more emotional than he ever should.

Had Sherlock changed during these three years, or was he just trying to say something that was really, really personal and emotional and something that Sherlock wasn't used to dealing with?

“It was very... flattering”, Sherlock finally said, after some hesitation. “Not - not completely unexpected - but - I suppose you should know that I, that I feel the same way.”

Something inside John exploded.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

His hand found Sherlock's almost by accident, but he never wanted to let go again. He smiled as he leaned closer to Sherlock.

“Good. That's good.”

Their lips met and it was a mess of lips and tongues and teeth and stubble and skin pressing to skin and other parts of their bodies touching as well, and it was the happiest John had felt for three goddamn years and everything, all the agony he'd felt was drowned and simply vanished in the blissful beauty of their kiss and the sole thought that remained was that John would never, ever let Sherlock jump off a building again.

They broke apart and just looked at each other for a moment.

Then Sherlock remarked, “You've got blood on your face.”

And then they both burst out laughing, the way they both only laughed when they were together - Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, the way it had been from the first day, the way it was supposed to be.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson - the way it would continue to be for as long as they had each other, which would always be all they needed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Where John still pays Sherlock's cellphone bill just so he can call and hear Sherlock's voice on his answering machine and will occasionally leave a message telling him all the things he never told him while he was alive. Sherlock checks his messages often in hopes of hearing from John. They are tethered to each other just by their voices. In a way, they are still at each other's sides. Best friends."
> 
> This story was written for the amazing strawberrykiller on tumblr. A few months ago, she posted her headcanon on tumblr with the remark that she would be forever grateful if someone would make it into a fanfiction. I saw it and was greatly intrigued, so after an idea and some planning and two months in Summer Camp which got absolutely nothing done, here be my fanfiction for you. I hope you like it.


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